


Violin

by aftershocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftershocks/pseuds/aftershocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violin

It had been a long day. John Watson left the crime scene, with its cooling corpse and discarded weapon and all-too-obvious solution, nursing a pounding headache. He needed Advil. And a drink. John eyed the pub across the street. He had a tenner in his coat pocket that he had meant to use for cab fare, but right at that moment, a cold beer sounded a lot better than a cold and empty flat.  
A familiar voice stopped him halfway there.  
“John! Share a cab?”  
He turned to face Lestrade, forcing a smile.  
“Yeah, alright.”  
The cab smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. John pressed his forehead against the window and squeezed his eyes closed, praying that Lestrade would have the sense to keep his mouth shut. He slid in, the smell of his cheap aftershave mingling with the stench of the cab, and slammed the door. John winced. It was blessedly silent for a moment, and then:  
“How are you?”  
No, thought John, no. Not today. Don’t-  
“It’s his birthday, isn’t it?”  
A starburst of pain exploded from John’s stomach; he bit his lip to keep from doubling over. He had almost forgotten—the morning had passed with not so much as a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, but then he had picked up a paper and seen the date. The case—he had only taken the case in an attempt to distract himself.  
The need for a drink became all-consuming.  
“John?” Lestrade was looking at him with concern.  
“I’m fine.”  
The rest of the ride passed in silence. Lestrade could tell he was lying, of course he could, but John knew he wasn’t going to say anything. No one ever knew what to say anymore.  
The cab pulled to a stop and John clambered out hurriedly. There was a bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter. If he could just hold it together until he got there…  
John stepped into the flat and froze. From the living room issued the high, mournful sounds of a violin.  
John stumbled back against the wall, unable to stand. He couldn’t look. He wouldn’t look. He would turn around and walk out of the apartment and call the police, because obviously there was an intruder in his flat and they had found Sherlock’s violin.  
He was no longer leaning on the wall. John looked down. His feet were moving, apparently independently of any higher brain function. Before he knew what he was doing, he was at the door into the living room. Desperately, he shut his eyes tight.  
The violin continued.  
John could not move, and something told him he would be there, frozen on the spot, paralyzed, until he could justify the nightmares and the three years of worry and the drinking and—  
John opened his eyes, and the world shattered into a million glittering pieces.


End file.
